“What nice nails you have…”
“Well, they’re the only thing she likes about me.”
“What nice hair you have…”
“Well, it used to be longer. She cut it off, saying I needed to focus on school.”
“What nice grades you have.”
“Well, she says I need to do better. Number two isn’t enough.”
“What a nice figure you have…”
“She says I’m too fat. I won’t get a husband.”
“What nice skin you have…”
“It’s the only thing I can control.”

Ever since I could remember, I had never been good enough for her. I was too slow, too introverted, not smart enough, not outgoing — not receiving enough awards. She always compared me to other kids, thinking they’d make better daughters. All I did was retreat into a “gogoon.” At least, that’s what she said.
“Get out of that gogoon — you’re too closed off!”
She never really knew how to pronounce it. She just threw the word around recklessly.
“Your teacher says you’re a whitewash. Do you know what that is?”

Of course I did. Her strict, overcritical ways had made me into a people-pleaser. I wanted friends, but I didn’t want to lose them, so I did anything to keep them. I was quiet because everything I said came out wrong. I felt bad in my own body and skin. Sometimes, instead of trying to prove people right, I shut down and went into my ‘gogoon.’

“You’re just like your father. Dumb, slow, stupid.”
At first, I tried to do things her way, but it only got worse.
“Look at your neighbour Cassey; small, smart, and doesn’t complain.”
She was wrong. My grades were better than Cassey’s, but she didn’t care for facts. She just wanted to pull me down.

At some point I thought I was the child she never wanted. She hated me. To make it worse, I looked just like her. Once a teacher complimented her when she came for parent’s day. Turns out I hadn’t been giving her our school’s monthly newsletters. She scared me, a lot.
“How can you be so stupid? Fool! Who pays your fees? Don’t you want me to know what goes on in your school? No wonder your grades are low. When I was your age I was number one in the whole district. Not an ounce of intelligence in you.”

I knew I couldn’t please her, so I created a world of my own – a fantasy land. In that world, I was thinner, smarter, braver, extroverted. I was the child she always wanted; she was the mother I had always needed. In there I found joy, even if only for brief moments. We would walk together, holding hands, sharing stories. She would be proud of my achievements. I had lots of friends, and they adored me. Then I’d wake to the sad reality that the girl in that world wasn’t me. I was still the same loser in real life.

***

I was a teenager in high school when I first spoke up. She was shocked and said she wouldn’t argue with me as if I were her co-wife, that I was a bad influence on the rest of her kids. But I was past caring. I didn’t care whether she loved me or hated me. I just wanted to be left alone. She never did. She always looked for ways to pick fights. I hated her. Once we went shopping and she was in a foul mood, quarrelsome. She bought me clothes two sizes too small. A year later they didn’t fit. Dad took me shopping and I was happy to buy clothes that actually fit. That’s how it felt to be accepted for who you are, not who you should be.

Teenage years came with adolescent pressure. Girls my age were getting boyfriends, valentines’ gifts, dates. I wanted that too, but I was too shy, too weird. I was the teacher’s pet; my classmates hated me for it. I was a recluse with secret crushes; they hated me too. But in my fantasy land, I had it all. I was the hottest girl in school, popular, dating the hottest boy. We went to dances, kissed in dark alleys, and had no strict parents to restrict us. Teachers and students loved me.

She left to work abroad. For the first time, our house breathed. There was no tension and I had a little freedom. Fantasyland closed down for a while, then reopened when I joined campus. There was so much freedom. I kissed my first guy. It was wet and sloppy, and I barely knew him. I broke my virginity, and I never heard from the guy again. It made me sad. I thought if I could be good, if I gave them what they wanted, maybe they would stay. They didn’t. They took whatever they wanted and left.

While other girls were getting gifts and love out loud, I was getting laughed at behind my back; false rumours spread. I clung too long to people who should never have passed the first date. I thought maybe if I gave them my body they would stay. They didn’t. I gave them my heart. They broke it. I got sadder, but fantasyland was there for me, open and brand new with new rooms.

In it, I had a man who adored me. He listened to me and did whatever I wanted without asking. He introduced me to his friends and family; they loved me. He bought me gifts, took me on dates, and we never went to bed angry. Ah – to be loved. Reality was different: they never stayed. One show of weakness and they were gone. I was too needy, too clingy, too emotional, too deep. Yet they wanted less.

“You stay in the house too much. You wear ill-fitting clothes that don’t suit you. You always walk with a frown. Your friends are getting married. How do you expect to attract anyone?” My biggest critic, my bully, was back with a bang. From telling me I wouldn’t get married because I didn’t know how to cook, to pestering me about marriage every single day. “Position yourself here and there. This is where good men are. You won’t find a good man if you don’t go to church, and not our local one. Men there don’t have money. Go to the high-end churches.”

All that pestering stopped when the pastor’s son was revealed to be a cheat who physically abused his wife and had children out of wedlock. She left him. Who was I to thank, the universe? The Lord?

I moved out when I was twenty-seven. To my own house. I was so happy. Peace at last. Away from her negative mouth. Away from expectations I couldn’t meet. But love still bothered me. I never understood it. Was I not worthy? Was I not worthy of unconditional love? Fantasyland kept me hopeful. One day I would meet him. And when I did, I would just know.

DOUBLE D’S
The first day I talked to him, I knew he was the one. We spoke for hours nonstop – life, movies, family, work. The conversation flowed so easily. He never wanted me to change; accepted me as I was. But what first caught my attention was his physique: 6’4, darker than any berry, with a deep voice, and a gym-toned body.

“Nice pecs, bro.”
That’s how gym bros complement each other, all buff and cubed. I was no different. Something about a well-toned chest, with that sharp line down the middle, made me go ooh-la-la. And my 6’4 gym bro had exactly that. I called them Double D’s, to set them apart from the saggy, squishy “man boobs” that are both an eyesore and a touch sore. I could stare at him for ages. He looked like a Greek statue, crafted when God was in a great mood. The finest clay, the strongest breath of life. God’s first creation that day, and it was exquisite. I worshipped the ground he walked on. He noticed my adoration.

But my utopia developed cracks. Sleeping on Double D’s wasn’t as comfy as I’d imagined – bumpy, awkward. So, I found a spot on his biceps.
“I don’t really like cuddling. It hurts my arms.”
So I stopped laying on them. But his abs were still free, right?
“Ah, your hands are too cold. Place them between your thighs.”

I was reduced to being an observer of my man’s perfect body. Then came the real inconsistencies. We’d plan a date, I’d anticipate it, and he’d ghost me without a word. Days later, he’d return with an apology. I took him back. It became a cycle: the highs of being seen kept me hooked, the lows of abandonment broke me, but I always believed he’d come back. He was my dream guy. I thought if I was patient, he’d return to the man I first fell for. But things only got worse. I rubbed my chest to soothe the pain, and when he returned with crumbs, I clung to them.

In fantasyland, he was perfect: a gentleman who reassured me, resolved conflict quickly, kept promises, never hurt me. Problem was, I believed fantasyland more than reality. So, I marinated in pain. Gymbro cheated, lied, manipulated, showed narcissistic tendencies; and I still stayed. Until one morning, after I’d spent the night, he kicked me out. Said his friends were coming over. He placed my bags outside the door.

At home, anger consumed me. Why was I still in love with someone who treated me so badly? The answer was clear. I wasn’t chasing him, I was chasing validation. The love I never got from Mum, I sought in men. I tried so hard to prove my worth that I lost my value.

Gymbro, Double D’s, did look back. But I was long gone.

TECH-BRO
I had given up on love when I met him. Quirky, nerdy, funny – he was easy to be around. We started as friends, then grew into love. We trauma-bonded over past heartbreaks. He told me his ex-fiancée of seven years left him for her boss. They even had a child now. I felt sorry for him. I wanted to fix him. Then I remembered; I was broken too. How could I fix him?

We bonded over art. I wrote; he narrated. Love came easy, though I tried hard not to think of the future. Each time I smiled too much, I stopped myself. It will hurt when he leaves. Don’t get too attached. But it was hard not to. He was smart and let me be myself. Any façade I’d built vanished. I met his family, his sisters adored me.

Tech-Bro didn’t have Double D’s. More like a small cup A. He’d never stepped foot in a gym. Lean, the same height as me. But I thought: if this is the sacrifice I must make for happiness, so be it. He let me sleep on his chest for hours, comfy and bump-free. We watched TikToks and crime documentaries. He rubbed my forehead gently and I adored those intimate moments. I rubbed my chest in blissful hope. He wrote me poetry, handmade cards, sent me flowers weekly. Unlike Gymbro, he never forgot my birthday. I was happy. Fantasyland closed its doors.

At the same time, I got a dream job – Senior Communications Manager at an international company. I finally narrated stories for a living. My salary was enviable. For the first time, Mum was proud of me; announcing it everywhere, even in the village. I thought I no longer needed her validation, but it still felt good. Then Tech-Bro grew distant. Unreplied texts. Missed calls. Flimsy excuses. I knew the signs. I tried to keep my dignity, but the silence stretched. He said, “It’s just work and school.” I tried to believe him. But who goes two months without talking to someone they love? In fantasyland, we were married, with a beautiful family. We listened, cared, laughed. Our family portrait was perfect.

One day at work, while drafting a short story, a notification popped up: It’s not you, it’s me. We got back together… things just happened… I’m sorry. On his status, he posted his traditional wedding. His ex stood beside him, their child in her arms. I closed my laptop and stared into space.

***

Then the company downsized. First junior staff, then me. I cleared my desk, took my last salary. Six months of job hunting, endless interviews, endless rejections. My savings ran out. Bills piled. The landlord pressed harder. Mum claimed she had no money. I was alone. Something I was used to. But this time, it hit harder. It began with a dull ache on the left side of my chest, spreading to my arm. A lump grew on my breast. I prayed it away. It grew larger. Eventually, the diagnosis: cancer. Aggressive. I needed chemo, but I had no money. I lied to Mum. Told her I was fine.
“You’ve lost so much weight! What’s your secret? Working out? Keep at it.”

At first, the weight loss looked okay. Until it didn’t. My eyes hollowed, cheeks sunken, collarbones sharp. Clothes hung off me. I looked sixty. I stopped looking in mirrors. I had no food. Painkillers failed. The ulcer on my chest spread, leaking a carrion stench. People avoided me. I was ashamed. Too weak even to answer my neighbour’s knock. I lay down to rest…

FANTASYLAND
I entered a grand ballroom adorned with gold chandeliers and bright light. I glanced in a vanity – I was beautiful again. Clear skin, bright teeth, no disease. My cleavage glowed; my red ball gown sparkled with diamonds, corset cinching my waist. I laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in years.

A receptionist guided me in. The ballroom was full, buzzing with joy. Glasses clinked, music swelled, chatter floated, sunlight streamed through vast windows. A man approached – tall, dark, handsome. A James Bond type. He handed me a black mask, asking for a dance. Of course, I agreed. My head rested against his chest. Double D’s. I closed my eyes, reassured.

A tap on my shoulder. The receptionist again.
“You need to leave before the curtains close completely.”
The curtains were indeed drawing shut, the last rays of sun fading.
“When does the party end?” I asked.
“It doesn’t. But when the curtains close, you’ll be here for eternity.”
“Let them.”

I turned back to my partner. He cradled me close, chest firm beneath my cheek. Comfort. Safety. Together, we kept dancing.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash